She paused, with the air of having completed an explanation.

“Of course,” said Mary, sympathetically accepting it.

“Yes.  I’ve been seeing quite a lot of the Kittersbys since that afternoon,” Sibyl went on.  “They’re really delightful people.  Indeed they are!  Yes—­”

She stopped with unconscious abruptness, her mind plainly wandering to another matter; and Mary perceived that she had come upon a definite errand.  Moreover, a tensing of Sibyl’s eyelids, in that moment of abstraction as she looked aside from her hostess, indicated that the errand was a serious one for the caller and easily to be connected with the slight but perceptible agitation underlying her assumption of cheerful ease.  There was a restlessness of breathing, a restlessness of hands.

“Mrs. Kittersby and her daughter were chatting about some to the people here in town the other day,” said Sibyl, repeating the cooing and protracting it.  “They said something that took me by surprise!  We were talking about our mutual friend, Mr. Robert Lamhorn—­”

Mary interrupted her promptly.  “Do you mean ‘mutual’ to include my mother and me?” she asked.

“Why, yes; the Kittersbys and you and all of us Sheridans, I mean.”

“No,” said Mary.  “We shouldn’t consider Mr. Robert Lamhorn a friend of ours.”

To her surprise, Sibyl nodded eagerly, as if greatly pleased.  “That’s just the way Mrs. Kittersby talked!” she cried, with a vehemence that made Mary stare.  “Yes, and I hear that’s the way all you old families here speak of him!”

Mary looked aside, but otherwise she was able to maintain her composure.  “I had the impression he was a friend of yours,” she said; adding, hastily, “and your husband’s.”

“Oh yes,” said the caller, absently.  “He is, certainly.  A man’s reputation for a little gaiety oughtn’t to make a great difference to married people, of course.  It’s where young girls are in question.  Then it may be very, very dangerous.  There are a great many things safe and proper for married people that might be awf’ly imprudent for a young girl.  Don’t you agree, Miss Vertrees?”

“I don’t know,” returned the frank Mary.  “Do you mean that you intend to remain a friend of Mr. Lamhorn’s, but disapprove of Miss Sheridan’s doing so?”

“That’s it exactly!” was the naive and ardent response of Sibyl.  “What I feel about it is that a man with his reputation isn’t at all suitable for Edith, and the family ought to be made to understand it.  I tell you,” she cried, with a sudden access of vehemence, “her father ought to put his foot down!”

Her eyes flashed with a green spark; something seemed to leap out and then retreat, but not before Mary had caught a glimpse of it, as one might catch a glimpse of a thing darting forth and then scuttling back into hiding under a bush.

“Of course,” said Sibyl, much more composedly, “I hardly need say that it’s entirely on Edith’s account that I’m worried about this.  I’m as fond of Edith as if she was really my sister, and I can’t help fretting about it.  It would break my heart to have Edith’s life spoiled.”